Shiver
by Nymbis
Summary: “Look me in the eyes and listen well. I don’t want you to cry, scream, or beg for mercy. All I want for you to do right now is to shiver.” Karyl’s justification for being the way he is.


**Shiver.**

**By:** Nymbis

_Summary: _"Look me in the eyes and listen well. I don't want you to cry, scream, or beg for mercy. All I want for you to do right now is to shiver." Karyl's justification for being the way he is.

**AN: **First of all, I'm really sorry that it's been so long. I figured since I've had a one-shot for almost every Follower character (I believe I have Lambert, Stanton, Cassandra, and two Tymmie stories) I'd do one for Karyl.

…

It's a ridiculous notion, the idea of hope in a bleak world such as this. I've never felt it since I entered this miserable world. This place of cold hard steel that not even the warmest of hearts could thaw.

But then I suppose I probably shouldn't be getting philosophical on anyone. Most people are irritated by hearing it, and quite frankly, I'm irritated to give it. I'm not one of those types, I suppose. Those dark, brooding, scholastically endeavored kinds, like Tymmie or Stanton. I'm a straight shooter; I live in the present and don't really think much of it. Granted that may be a character flaw, but it's suited me just fine over the years.

Fate has dealt me a rough card, and I don't say it to be whiny and self-pitiful, but I state it because it is a fact. Accepting the fact will most likely help anyone accept me. The way I am, my mannerism, my unfortunate addiction to hurt, it's all been a long and hard over-classification of the situations given to me. Personality formed by circumstance, I guess.

And through my trials of hurt, lies, suffering, and most important, the abandonment of hope, is how I am the way I am today.

Perhaps that's why I reacted the way I did when the opportunity to leave my predicament made it's face known. Almost any Follower I know would've leapt at the chance to become an ordinary mortal. I know some, like Tymmie, would die to escape the Atrox if given the opportunity. But not me.

Most likely, never me.

I'm rotten to the core, always have been, always will be. I get a high off of watching people twitch and gasp and cry and try any other means necessary to escape the harsh realities of the real world. I'm someone who will laugh when small children scream for their mother, and I'm someone who'd trip an overtired waitress on her third shift because she's trying to be a single mom with a stack of dishes in her hand. I go out of my way to inflict sufferings on others because Fate will go out of its way to make sure sufferings are inflicted on me. What can I say? Misery loves its company.

I was a Follower long before the Atrox stole my hope from me.

And while most people -self-righteous, heroic, moral-ingrained hypocrites- try to pass judgment and berate me for my desires and malicious intentions, all I do is smile because at least I know who I am. I'm not one of those pretenders; and we all know the types. The kind to scream at you for not recycling and then spend about twenty tons of aerosol cans on their hair and plaster themselves with animal-tested beauty products. I know I'm a blasphemer, a cheat, a crook, a sinner, a womanizer, and even an occasional murderer, I'll never be some little gritty anti-hero who one day grows a sense of morality and decides to right all the wrongs he's committed. Never gonna happen, I'm completely devoid of a soul and a conscious.

To me, the concept of evil and dishonor is all about perspective. Never in my life have I questioned the fact that a persona didn't exist in the two extremes; there were always the shades of gray in the middle. Humans were after all human, and because of that there's flaws, whether it be physical, emotional, mental, or a combination of all three. Even during childhood, I accepted this. Perhaps it was witnessing my father beat on my mother, or maybe it was my mother humiliating and embarrassing me in front of my friends, but I knew…I _knew _that within each and every human that has ever existed that there was the unavoidable streak of malice and contempt. The feeling of disdain and hatred for those of our kind, implanted at birth that would never fully leave. I can sense it coursing through my veins even now that my humanity has been removed from my being.

The ability to hate is always on par with the ability to love simply because like love, or anger, it is imbedded in our soul. And I love to hate. By embracing this feral instinct, and that's truly all it is, an instinct, I empower myself over those who mean me harm yet try to cover it by a false sense of codes and laws. I feel no compassion, and I show no mercy. I accept the fact that hatred, torment, and rage fill the air in my lungs and keep my undying heart thudding against my chest. My meaning on Earth is to share this acknowledgment with others, to share the capability to welcome the dark side so that others may pass it on again. To spread the misery, contempt, violence, fear, and despair, so that others will suffer as I suffer; to be slowly tormented until they plead for death, but then have even that pleasure denied to them.

I want them to shiver from the inside out when they realize the despicable monsters they really are.

And now I have come to realize that all of my careful introspection will turn to useless ramblings, only for the reasoning that they fall upon deaf ears. People do not _want_ to admit to the fact that they are selfish, conceited, cruel, or anything sub-godly. This makes them the weak, and me the strong.

Tonight I'm going to prove it.

The wind sweeps around me, leaving a bitter chill as I wander the streets of downtown L.A., the trash on the sidewalks crunching under my steel-toed boots. But it's not the cold that bothers me, because I know I am one of those who shiver from the inside out.

There are people on the streets, sure enough. Drug dealers, prostitutes, drunks, and gamblers; all of which own the city after dark, but they don't interest me. They already know the horrors that mankind can wield.

Instead of making my way towards The Dungeon, or other Follower infested hotspots, I make my way to the least likely of places-

a children's hospital down the street.

I can feel the pulse of life awaken in me as I slowly make my way to a newfound purpose. I am going to teach someone the bitterness and nihilism that I have been taught so many times before. I wanted them to feel the acrimony that only self-loathing can bring about. I wanted them to hate as I hate, to endure as I endure, and to shiver as I shiver.

Entrance into the building was hardly difficult as I felt myself let go and surrender to the shadows of this dark, moonless night. I concentrated and drifted over the cheaply illuminated parking lots and into the desolated hospital.

All is exceedingly quiet, the silence like a sense of foreboding as I walk the hallways of the place, taking in the light breathing as I pass open doorways with children sleeping behind them. My feet walk stealthily across the floor, not a sound, not a disruption. I feel very much like the tenth plague upon Egypt, the one that killed children in the night.

I continue my eerie strut across the halls until I finally stop outside of a door, this one closed, but what stood out was the fact that instead of hearing the telltale snoring, I hear a series of hushed and muffled words. This would be my chosen one for tonight. I cautiously slip under the doorway and silently appear to see who would be the one to shiver.

Yet all I see is a small child, a girl no more than seven, her blonde hair straight and hanging passed her shoulders, kneeling before her bed with her hands clasped tightly together.

Praying, I observed. I felt my face flush and the anger within me grow, because I couldn't fathom why anyone, let alone a child in a hospital, would ask some ominous and non-caring deity for anything. How many times had I prayed for deliverance, and how many times had I been denied? This girl was about to learn what it felt like to be abandoned.

Before she realized what was happening, I clamped a cold clammy hand of mine over her mouth and spun her around, so her eyes would face mine.

I took a moment to observe the girl. Her wide, doe-eyed expression was contorted with a mixture of fear and shock. I smirked, fear was an empowering emotion. She struggled against me helplessly but I held her strongly.

"Look me in the eyes and listen well," I whispered, my voice oily, "I don't want you to cry, scream, or beg for mercy. All I want for you to do right now is to shiver."

The small girl looked up at me, terror in her eyes and a whimper threatening to let loose from her throat, but she obeyed and remained silent.

"Good." I muttered, and allowed the power of the Atrox to channel through me as I stared into her big blue eyes.

It was then that I pulled up all of my worst memories for her to live through. The moments where I had been tormented by my mother for being her only bastard son, the times I had been cruelly picked upon by my classmates for being poor, the experience of being rejected for not being good enough, the lies, the deceit, the anguish, the tears, and the hardships that my life seemed to encompass. I could feel her suffer with me, I could sense her small fragile hopes shattering into a million pieces, I could feel the hatred and rage building inside of her; and I could feel her tiny innocence dying.

It was then that I chose to not yet cross her over to the Atrox. I wanted this little girl, whom I've never met or talked to before in my life, to become embittered with hope, just like I was soured before being taken by the dark. I wanted her to be aware that it wasn't hope that made you good; it was the ignorance of the real world.

So I slowly relinquished my hold on the child, and I let her become aware of her surroundings. She stepped away from me immediately and looked terrified, her small hand grasping at something around her neck. I scrutinized the area carefully before I noticed a small golden crucifix. I almost swore with vehemence. She just didn't get it. There was no one to save her; she was doomed.

I stood there stoically, waiting for her to make the first move, the pregnant pause that hung in the air was beginning so smother me and I gnawed on my lower lip and urged her to get on with whatever moronic endeavor she had for her fair God.

I stared at her, and I noticed that tears ran down the girl's almost angelic little face. Good, they deserved to be shed.

"God," I heard her whisper, almost missing it as she spoke so softy, "I pray for you to help this sad man."

I jerked back slightly, startled, what was she playing at?

"Help him see that he is not alone, that he has no reason to be afraid, and that you still love him," She continued.

"Why do you pray?" I spat, "It's useless, God's not listening."

But she ignored me and carried on, "Help other people like him, let them see the error of their ways-"

Full-fledged rage coursed within me now as I grabbed her roughly by the shoulder, "Would you just shut up? Stop it!" I rasped.

But she continued, despite the fact that she was obviously terrified, "Help mankind be kinder to those that they pick on, help them be nice to each other-"

"Silence!" She was missing the entire point. Couldn't she sense the hatred and spite that was in her?

"-Help me in turn be kind to those who need it, help me be better-"

"SHUT UP!" I bellowed, now shaking her.

"Help people see within their own flaws-" She continued, her eyes now boring into mine, fear disappeared and replaced by an emotion I haven't seen for such a long time- compassion.

"Why?" I answered meekly, now it was my turn to not understand.

"Help them be loved again." She finished, her small hand cupping my face, "Amen." She finished.

I looked at her in disbelief, how? Why? Why could she not see how horrible I was? How I aimed to cause her harm, how much of a rotten and despicable human being I was? Why was she showing me any concern? I would hurt her. I hurt everyone.

There was this pause as I stared into her large eyes, small tears running down her pudgy cheeks, not tears of fear I realized, but tears of sorrow. "I'm sorry." She whispered.

It took me a minute to realize that I was beginning to cry as well. How could such a young child, so small and fragile, care about a piece of trash like me?

Her small hands wiped the tears from my eyes, and pulled me closely into a hug. I gripped her tightly, this small, fragile thing, as if she were a lifeline. I clung, fearing I would loose this tiny little creature if I loosened my grip only by a little.

It was then, on that cold night in the terminal ward of the children's hospital, grasping this tiny little girl who had maybe a week or two to live, that I began to shiver.

And this time I discovered that for once, I wanted warmth.

_One week later…_

"How long has he been in there?" Questioned Tymmie, a slight concern edging his voice as he joined Murray and Kelly, both of whom were perched outside of Karyl's bedroom door.

Kelly shook her head, "A while, I haven't seen him leave since early this morning."

Murray nodded, "He was reading the paper when he suddenly just got up and left, throwing his cereal bowl at the wall."

"He went to his room and locked himself in," Finished Kelly, "We haven't seen him come out since, and it's been nine or so hours, I'm beginning to worry."

Tymmie sighed, it wasn't like Karyl to be the solitary, angsty type. He was always the loud-mouthed, slightly brash of the group. He was the definition of the word extrovert; it was strange of him to be behaving so. He gave a curt knock on his door, "Karyl?" He asked carefully.

He was rewarded with silence. After a few more attempts he groaned, "I give up." He muttered, "He'll come out when he wants. Let's go, I hear there's a potential gathering at the Dungeon in an hour."

Kelly and Murray both hesitantly followed him.

"Do you think he'll be ok?" Asked Kelly.

Murray put an arm around her shoulder, "It's Karyl, I _know_ he'll be ok."

Karyl sat in his room, rereading the now worn section of the newspaper for about the thousandth time. This morning when he had opened it, which had been a habit for the past ten or so years, he was startled to find the face of a small, blue-eyed, seven year old girl greeting him. Even more startled to discover the face was plastered under the Obituaries.

Her name had been Lydia. Lydia Thomas. She was survived by three younger siblings, and both of her parents. The cause of death was bone marrow cancer.

Carefully reaching a decision, Karyl carefully creased the edges of the article, and cautiously ripped it out of the paper. Pulling some tacks out from one of his dresser drawers, he placed the article on his wall. He stared at it, and slowly backed up until he was at the edge of his bed, his eyes never tearing away from the picture of the smiling, happy girl.

When he collapsed on his bed, he began to shiver, and this time, it was because of the tears.

_finis-_


End file.
